Read Reggiecide (Reeves & Worcester Steampunk Mysteries) for Free Online Page A

aged, if you know what I mean?”
    “I ’ave some beef that’s been well ’ung, sir.”
    “Jacobean beef, is it?”
    “It is Scottish, sir. Finest Angus.”
    “Angus who?”
    “Angus ... steak, sir?”
    I turned to Reeves and whispered. “Do we know an Angus Stake, Reeves? Was he one of Guy’s co-conspirators?”
    “I think the butcher is referring to a breed of Highland cattle know as the Angus, sir.”
    “Oh.” I turned back to the butcher. “Do you have anything a bit older? For medicinal purposes.”
    “’ere, what’s your game? Do you want some meat or not?”
    “Most certainly. The older the better. Egyptian, Assyrian—”
    “’ere, don’t I know you? Weren’t you in ’ere yesterday with that dog? I recognise your voice.”
    “No,” I said, pitching my voice a good half an octave lower. “I’ve never been here before, have I, Reeves?”
    “Reeves!” said the butcher. “That was the name of the other one! It is you.”
    There are times in an investigation when a consulting detective has to beat a hasty r. This was one of them.

Five
    ack at the flat, beardless and clueless, I sipped on a despondent cocktail.
    Even the restorative properties of gin were hard-pressed to lift my mood. I’d been sure that I’d find a clue to the identity of ‘M’ at Ernest Durrant’s meat emporium but ... not a sausage. ‘Sausage’ as in clue, that is. There were plenty of the pork and beef variety.
    Perhaps my little grey cells needed a distraction to get them re-charged? I picked up my freshly-ironed copy of The Times and began to peruse.
    There was an article about the forthcoming state opening of Parliament. No mention of any threats to blow it up though. And no stories about any criminal masterminds whose name began with an ‘M’ either.
    Reeves came in to refresh my drink as I turned to the last page.
    “Keep them coming, Reeves. You see before you a despondent Reginald.”
    “Indeed, sir?”
    “One wonders what the world is coming to, Reeves. I had hoped to find an uplifting story and what do I find? Page after page of dire warnings and gloom. And to top it all, here’s a story about grave robbers digging up Sir Roger Mortimer and carrying him off for spare parts! I ask you, is anyone safe these days?”
    “Does it say which Sir Roger Mortimer, sir?”
    I read further. “The Third Baron Mortimer. It says here he was interred in 1330.”
    “Ah.”
    It was a meaningful ‘ah’ and not a hint of sniffiness. “You’ve heard of him, Reeves?”
    “Indeed, sir. I fear this may be connected with the disappearance of Mr Fawkes.”
    I sat up. “Not another relative digging up his ancient a. with a view to righting history’s wrongs?”
    “That is one possibility, sir. But there is also another. Sir Roger Mortimer was a regicide.“
    I almost fell off the chaise longue . “You mean ... he killed Reggies?”
    “No, sir. The word comes from the latin Regis. ”
    “As in Bognor?”
    “Indeed, sir. It means ‘of the King.’”
    I racked a grey cell or two trying to come up with the name of the chap who’d been king in the 1330s but couldn’t get much beyond Richard the Lion Tamer. History has never been my subject — far too many dates.
    “Which King did he kill?” I asked.
    “Edward II, sir. You may recall the incident with the red hot poker.”
    “No. What did he do with it? Hit him on the head with it?”
    “Not exactly the head, sir.”
    “Where?”
    “I’d rather not say, sir.”
    “Too gory for your mechanical sensibilities?”
    “One could say that, sir.”
    “Wait a minute! That note was pinned to our door with a hot poker!”
    “Indeed, sir. And Mortimer begins with an ‘M.’”
    ~
    My mood of despondency evaporated like vintage champagne on Boat Race Night. We knew who ‘M’ was and...
    “What else do we know, Reeves? Have we discovered Mortimer’s plan?”
    “Not definitively, sir. Though, from his note, we can deduce that it involves Mr Fawkes.”
    I took